


Storms & Saints

by AntTemps



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bellamione Cult Discord Game, Discord: Bellamione Cult, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 21:34:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18106913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntTemps/pseuds/AntTemps
Summary: The storms that brew within a saint are the most violent to rage.Trauma comes to the sinner and the holy alike.Trigger Warnings abound, please check chapter notes!





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Sedation

She stared at the ceiling. She was unaware of what was happening in the hallways, the moan and screams were all muffled by the voices.   
  
_ Such a smart girl. _ __  
  
It all echoed.   
  
_ But never where it counted _ .    
  
Cackles rang out in echos. Where had her mind receded to? All of the blood. All of the gore. Still ever present, and yet.   
  
_ Never where it counted! Never where it counted! _ __  
  
She couldn’t have told anyone when the screaming started. Her vocal chords were always raw and sore. The nurses at St. Mungos always rushed in with their sedation spells.    
  
_ Never where...! Never...! _ __  
  
The voices faded. This is what she needed.   
  
Something, like the voices in her head, but much more grounded could be heard now. Maybe from the doorway.   
  
“NEVER THOUGHT YOU’D BE LIKE ME, DID YOU, MUDBLOOD?!”   
  
And then darkness.


	2. The Air is Full

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione finds herself in St. Mungos. She recounts the incidents that brought her here.

_And I’m in the throes of it_

_Somewhere in the belly of the beast_

_~ Florence Welch, Various Storms & Saints _

 

Mornings were the most difficult. In the time between waking up and breakfast, it was a race to be medicated. If they took even a moment too long, the screaming was bound to start.

The game never seemed to end these days. It’s what helped Hermione keep count.

Today was day one thousand, four hundred, and eighty-one; four years and twenty-one days since the war had ended.

She’d stuck it out for as long as she could. Everyone thought they’d be fine. The Dark Lord had fallen and the Boy Who Lived, continued to live. With extreme abandon, she’d jumped into life. Life she could now have. Life she was sure should have ended in that castle, whether they’d won or not.

Ron was just blissfully stupid enough to dodge the harsher effects of trauma. Consistent therapy and a few well prescribed potions kept him in check. Hermione was unequivocally and irrevocably too intelligent for that sort of ease.

As it loomed, her awareness, she ran from it with padded experiences. Making love to Ron that first night after the war had been won. Becoming pregnant in the same breath. Getting married in that same year. She held on. Therapy had helped for a while. Hermione loved talking and hearing all of the facts; pros and cons on the table helped her to rationalize a sort of happiness. Prescriptions from the best of the mediwizards had done the trick for a time.

“Can’t have our golden girl out of whack. You’ve taken care of us for so long; let us take care of you!”

So often she’d been given a spiel on how the world would be so much kinder to her now. So much softer. But she knew.

Her daughter turned three. That was the first folly. She began to speak. The voices had always been murmurs but now there was someone they needed to speak over.

“Mummy? Mum? MUMMY!!!!”

Hermione winced at the accompaniment every time, but that just meant it was time for a long lasting sip of pain potion. Maybe two, to keep the edge off.

Two months was all it took to see a decline. The prescriptions were gone so fast. Both his and hers. Ron had all but stopped taking a manner of them, so things were just _about._

Sitting with a therapist on the day she left, explaining why her screams came. Explaining why her daughter was locked in her bedroom closet with tape over her mouth. Explaining why her husband was petrified on the bed.

“They all were too loud. Simply too loud.”

If Harry hadn’t been due round for dinner, he wouldn’t have found Hermione of the floor, shaking and murmuring.

“ _Never where it...never...never where…”_

And now she was here. On day one thousand, four hundred, and eighty-one. St. Mungos, rather than Azkaban. The Ministry obviously being soft on her. Hoping to outrun the voice in her head.

This was her storm to weather and they had yet to reach the eye.


End file.
